


Mr. Brightside

by orpikjam44



Series: I'll Make It Right [4]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Anger Management, Angst, Comfort, Drinking, Friendship, Hockey, Jealousy, M/M, Music, NHL RPF, Separations, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vancouver Canucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:39:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orpikjam44/pseuds/orpikjam44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bert is torn in every way possible, especially when Brendan tells him who came to visit Nazzy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Brightside

**Author's Note:**

> BERT'S POV.
> 
> Title from The Killers, also the song that is quoted in the fic. Bert probably shouldn't be left alone. Ever.

CHAPTER FOUR _(Bert’s POV)_

Bert has never experienced anything so difficult as keeping himself from contacting Nazzy. Every day, he’ll find himself with the phone in his hand or about to run out the door to fly over to Nazzy’s house and beg forgiveness. Or closure. Or assistance, even. Something. Anything. Any kind of contact.

He’s even written out countless letters to his lover, titling them, scribbling them out and tossing them in his trash can, only to pull them out later, then throw them away again.

The suspension makes it both easier and harder. Nazzy is busy all the time with the team, which makes it easier for Bert to keep to himself. But it makes it harder at the same time, as Bert doesn’t have the team to distract himself with the suspension.

It’s been three weeks now since Nazzy threw him out. Brendan shows up every few days to hang out, drink, listen to music, ease the pain of the whole situation.

It would have been more difficult, Bert thought, if he didn’t know he was working towards healing his and Nazzy’s relationship. If there wasn’t that in mind, then he wouldn’t have made it past the first night. Oh, the nights. Those have been the worse part, but he’s survived them all so far.

So far.

Something is jangling, some sound cutting in above _The Killers_ blasting out of his stereo system. Bert looks up. He’s lifting weights in the mirror, focusing on perfecting his form. Concentration helps keep things from seeping in. Things like Nazzy.

The sound happens again and the song comes to an end. Before the next track cuts in, the sound goes off one more time and Bert realizes it’s the doorbell.

His heart pounds against his ribcage as he opens the door, cursing himself for hoping it’s Nazzy. Which, admittedly, is what he hopes every time someone comes to the door.

It’s Brendan, dressed in a windbreaker and shorts, mesh hat stuck on his head, his hair curling out around his ears. Not Nazzy. Still, Bert’s initial reaction is to welcome him with a hug and a smile, but when he sees the look of disappointment on his friend’s face, he stops. “What’s wrong?” His pulse picks up again and he swallows hard, trying not to show his worry.

Brendan looks down the street as if he’s making sure they’re alone, the cool summer breeze rustling his puffy jacket. He wrinkles his nose. “I was gonna call, but I figured I’d just... Peter’s here, Bert. Sorry.”

And suddenly the summer day doesn’t seem quite so sunny.

“Peter...” he trails off, not because he doesn’t know who Brendan is talking about, but because he does. The only thing he can hope for is that Brendan will say a different name than is screaming in his mind. _Please..._

“Forsberg,” Brendan finishes. He knows Bert knew who he meant, he can see it in Brendan’s eyes. He’s chewing on his lower lip. “Sorry. Can I still come in? I wanted to check up on you.”

Bert nods, or at least, he thinks he does. He supposes so, because Brendan jogs in over the welcome mat. Everything is lost. Swimming away. Sound, sight, the smell of summer, Brendan’s voice, all fuzzy and distant as if he’d been physically and mentally disconnected from them and was now observing them from afar.

“Why!?” he shouts, wondering why he can barely hear his own voice. “Why is he here?! Now!? Why the fuck!?”

“I don’t know,” Brendan says with a shrug, “Fuck, Bert, I’m not their keeper.”

“I’m being rhetorical, Brendan.”

Brendan gives him a smile. “I was attempting at humor. Sorry. I knew you wouldn’t take it well, but I figured I should tell you rather than keep it a secret.”

“Glad you did.” Bert slams his door shut and storms into the kitchen, pushing past the wine and pulling out the bottle of whiskey. He twists off the top cocking an eyebrow at Brendan. “Now drink up with me.”

Brendan slumps in a chair, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table. He’s not making eye contact with Bert. “You don’t know it means anything.”

Bert lets out a derisive bark of laughter before taking a swig of the bottle. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s a good joke, Brendan. Tell it again.”

So does that mean everything is for naught? All the pain and the waiting and the tossing and turning at night it-- no. Don’t think that. Stop. Maybe Peter just _was_ there for a friendly visit, to check up on Nazzy’s well-being. God knows he needs it. Maybe Nazzy had invited him. Maybe...

Brendan is talking again, and Bert begrudgingly drags his consciousness back to his friend’s words. “Don’t do anything stupid, Bert. Calm down. Things always work out for you guys, don’t they? Bad shit happens and you guys get stronger and closer, right? Let’s walk. Something. Come on.”

==

Maybe they walked. Maybe they drank. Maybe they laid around the house and talked about life. Maybe more happened. Maybe less. Bert can’t really remember now what was reality and what were thoughts procured in his tangled brain. He can hear Brendan’s laugh, warm in a memory fragment, the feel of Brendan’s wind breaker clutched smooth and cool in his fingers.

Brendan is gone, though, he knows that much. He feels a little lost, a little abandoned, a little lonely. And now he’s lying in bed, _The Killers_ back playing on his stereo, but low and unobtrusive. When had he turned it on? Had he turned it off? Maybe not.

It’s dark. It’s late. He has no idea what time it is. He’s staring up at his ceiling, but all he can see is Peter pulling Nazzy down into bed with him, their hair and bodies soaked with sweat. Dragging him into those soft, warm blankets that covered Nazzy’s bed. The ones Bert had bought for him somewhere in San Jose, and lugged back home from the road trip to that very bed. The one that Nazzy would steal in the middle of the night and lovingly cuddle to his body in his sleep. That they’d play fight over when Bert woke up freezing in the middle of the night.

_Who the hell else is going to want to do that with me if Nazzy fucking leaves me over all this? Who the fuck else am I going to want to do that with if Nazzy leaves me..._

It’s a tough situation, not like they hadn’t gotten through tough situations before. Maybe this was a little tougher, but the bond they have is strong, right? Brendan said something like that earlier, Bert thinks.

The music is still playing.

_Now they’re going to bed_  
 _And my stomach is sick_  
 _And it’s all in my head_  
 _But she’s touching his--_

Bert turns off the stereo, cussing under his breath at it. He has to do something about this. Sitting around and waiting is doing nothing. It’s doing less than nothing. And now, he can’t get the images out of his head. They feel real, like he’s watching them from a distance.

“Touch me there, Peter. Touch me. Please, Peter. Touch me more.”

Bert shakes his head. No. Whatever’s happening, there’s no way he can bust in on it. Especially considering what time of the morning it must be. If they’re doing it, they’re doing it and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

His lip curls and he repeatedly thumps the heel of his hand against his temple, breathing hard. The _Incident_ already took hockey from him in the form of the suspension, it wasn’t about to take Nazzy, too. He’s not going to let it.


End file.
